


it's too cold outside for angels to fly

by wesninski



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, M/M, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:30:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesninski/pseuds/wesninski
Summary: Nathaniel Abram Wesninski is born on a blustery night in January to a mother with regret in her eyes and a father with danger in his smile. Andrew takes one look at the baby, crinkled and screaming and gross as newborns tend to be, and knows he’s going to be trouble.or: Andrew is Nathaniel's guardian angel. Some things change. Some really don't.





	1. Chapter 1

Nathaniel Abram Wesninski is born on a blustery night in January to a mother with regret in her eyes and a father with danger in his smile. Andrew takes one look at the baby, crinkled and screaming and gross as newborns tend to be, and knows he’s going to be trouble.

“Trade me,” he orders Renee, whose current charge is a giggling delight of green eyes and tousled brown hair. Andrew knows Jean won’t be an untroubled kid - untroubled kids don’t need guardian angels. Still, learning French would probably be easier than trying to keep an eye on this brat.

“Now that wouldn’t be very fair to Jean, would it?” Renee smiles beatifically and Andrew rolls his eyes. “Besides,” Renee says as floats a little closer to peer down at the baby, who quiets and stares at her with wide eyes. "Nathaniel is a sweetie.”

Andrew frowns at the baby, who, apparently now disinterested in the glowing woman hovering over its crib, sticks its fist in its mouth. It looks over at Andrew, icy blue eyes piercing. Andrew’s frown deepens.

Renee turns back toward Andrew, a case file now in her hands. “I need to get back to Jean,” she says, and holds out the folder. Andrew glares at it. Renee sighs. “He needs you, Andrew.”

Andrew takes the folder. Renee smiles. The baby giggles, and Andrew glares at it.

* * *

“There are rules,” they told him when he woke up with aching wrists and the sun in his eyes. “You watch, and never touch and never harm. You can influence dreams. You can whisper, and they might hear you. When there are turning points, you can act. Guide them, and be redeemed.”

It sounded slightly less boring than the alternative, so Andrew agreed.

* * *

There are very few things that Andrew misses about being human. Ice cream, maybe. Fast cars. Cigarettes. Fuck, does he miss cigarettes. On the whole, however, he’s dismissed the entire human experience as frequently painful and generally useless.

By the time Nathaniel Abram Wesninski is eight months old, however, Andrew is, unfortunately, familiar with the fierce, foreign desire to be human, if only so he could kill Nathan Wesninski with his own two hands. A very un-angelic thought, perhaps, but clearly Andrew had been underestimating the sheer amount of trouble Nathaniel would be.

“I hate you,” Andrew tells Nathaniel one afternoon, when Nathan is out of the house. The baby babbles in agreement and reaches up for Andrew. Andrew doesn’t pick him up, couldn’t even if he wanted to. 

Angels can look but never touch.

Instead, he points toward Nathaniel’s favorite rattle, lying a few feet away on the plush carpet of the empty living room. Attention diverted, Nathaniel crawls toward it and grabs it with delight. Andrew watches, of course. Knowing his luck, the fool kid would manage to brain himself against the coffee table the second Andrew looked away.

Nathaniel shakes the rattle furiously, and Andrew eyes it with distaste.

“Stop that,” he says.

Nathaniel continues to shake the rattle.

“I hate you,” Andrew says again. Nathaniel looks back at him then, his blue eyes as piercing as ever.

“Aaah-ooh,” Nathaniel says.

“Andrew,” Andrew corrects.

“Aaah-ooh,” Nathaniel repeats.

Andrew sighs. Nathaniel shakes his rattle.

The front door slams.

Nathaniel stops shaking the rattle.

“Mary!” Nathan’s voice booms through the house. “Mary!” Quieter, “where is that bitch?” Again, “MARY!”

Andrew stands up from the couch, a newly-materialized knife in his hand.

High-heels click across the kitchen floor, and Andrew catches a glimpse of Mary, holding her third glass of wine and looking thoroughly unhappy as she goes to answer her husband. “What?”

“Where’s Junior? Is dinner ready?”

“In the living room, and no.” The sound of skin hitting skin rings out. Mary continues, quieter, “it’s in the oven.”

Nathan must be satisfied with that because his heavy footsteps mark his progress down the hall and into the doorway of the living room. Nathan is a large man, over six feet tall and strong from his butchery. Andrew could take him; he’s much smaller than Nathan, but much faster and well-equipped with knives. Andrew could have taken him when he was human.

Now, he glares at the man, fingers clenched around his useless knife as Nathan scoops Nathaniel up from the floor. 

“Hello, Junior.” Nathan grins and bounces the baby in his arms. There’s a streak of dried blood across his cheekbone. It’s not his own. “How’s my future heir doing?”

Andrew is across the room in an instant, pressing his blade into the vulnerable flesh of Nathan’s stomach. “He will never be like you,” he hisses venomously. “ _ Never _ . I won’t let him.”

Nathan continues to smile down at his son, oblivious. In the kitchen, Mary finishes the bottle of wine and starts on another. Nathaniel coos and grabs at the streak of blood on his father’s face.

Andrew throws his knife into the wall, suppressing a shout of rage. It sinks three inches into the plaster, but when Andrew pulls it out again, the wall is unmarked.

* * *

“‘Drew. Hey, ‘Drew.”

Andrew doesn’t need to sleep, technically. That doesn’t make being woken at 6 am by an over-enthusiastic four-year-old any easier.

He cracks one eye open to glare at his charge, who grins widely at him. “What.”

Nathaniel holds up two shirts for inspection. “Should I wear blue or red?”

“That’s orange,” Andrew informs him. “And I don’t care.”

Nathaniel frowns at the orange shirt. “Oh. I’ll wear this one, then.”

Andrew rolls over on the couch, turning his back on the boy as he pulls his pajama shirt off. He doesn’t need to be reminded of the bruises decorating Nathaniel’s chest, the marks of a failed dinner party. The marks of Andrew’s failure.

“Hey, ‘Drew. ‘Drew. Andrew. Hey, ‘Drew.”

Andrew resigns himself to being awake and sits up. Nathaniel, now clad in a terrible neon orange t-shirt, clambers up to sit next to him. “Lola’s coming over today,” Nathaniel says, swinging his feet.

Andrew glowers at the dead TV across from them. Nathaniel is reflected, distorted and grey-toned, on the screen. Andrew is not. “I know.”

Nathaniel, unintimidated by Andrew’s flat tone, continues eagerly. “I hope she gets me ice cream again. I liked the strawberry flavor and also the vanilla. I wonder if I can get strawberry and vanilla swirled together like strawberry and chocolate is. What’s your favorite ice cream flavor, ‘Drew?”

Andrew thinks. It’s been a very long time since he’s tasted ice cream. “Chocolate Rocky Road,” he says.

“Yuck.” Nathaniel sticks his tongue out. “That’s so sweet.” He kicks his feet against base of the couch. “I really like Lola. Mama hardly ever gets me ice cream. Lola’s nice.”

Andrew, who has seen what Lola gets up to in the basement alongside Nathan, disagrees, but keeps it to himself.

“If we do go get ice cream, you can come with us.” Andrew misses the days when Nathaniel couldn’t speak. “I can ask Lola to get some rocky road for you, since she can’t see you. She probably will, ‘cause she’s so ni-”

“Junior, who are you talking to?”

Andrew freezes. His breath catches in his lungs, his every muscle tense to the point of pain. Slowly, he turns. Nathan stands in the doorway, frowning at his son.

Before Andrew can stop him, Nathaniel slips off of the couch and trots over to stand in front of his father, smile gone. “I was talking to Andrew, sir.”

Nathan drops a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, and Nathaniel flinches as Nathan’s thumb digs into one of the bruises on his shoulder. “And who is Andrew?” Nathan’s voice is silky-smooth.

“No,” Andrew says, or thinks, or screams.

“He’s my friend, sir,” Nathaniel smiles tentatively up at his father, fooled by his calm voice and blank face. “But nobody else can see him.”

“You have an imaginary friend,” Nathan says, more statement than a question.

Nathaniel frowns. “Well, no, sir, he’s real. Just no one can see-” He breaks off into a short, choked cry as Nathan grabs at his arms with bruising strength, his expression flushed with rage.

“No son of mine wastes time with  _ imaginary friends, _ ” he spits the words. “Come on, Junior. We’re going down to the basement.”

Nathaniel pales. “No, sir, please, I- I’ll stop talking to Andrew, I swear! I don’t need a lesson!”

Andrew shouts, threatens, throws punches that go through flesh like air. Nathaniel struggles, cries, pleads for mercy. Nathan, strong and human, ignores them both as he drags Nathaniel into the basement.

Andrew follows, muttering promises of vengeance he can never keep. Andrew stays, hovering over Nathan’s shoulder and reminding Nathaniel that he can survive this, he’s strong and can survive everything. Andrew fades, can feel himself slipping out of visibility every time Nathaniel cries out in pain.

By the time Nathan is done, Nathaniel is no longer begging Andrew to help him.

By the time Nathan is done, Nathaniel doesn't say anything at all to Andrew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *returns from the dead to shove this chapter at y'all*
> 
> Enjoy

Jean is as cute at ten as he was at two, sporting a miniature Exy racket and a shy grin. Andrew watches him play with his younger sister and feels a fierce bolt of hatred at the way he’s managed to escape the consequences of his parents’ business nearly unscathed so far. The hatred isn’t fair, but neither is the world.

“How is Nathaniel?” Renee asks, perched lightly on the porch railing next to him.

Andrew says nothing for a long moment. He wishes he had a cigarette. “His father hit him with a hot iron last month,” he says, finally, flatly.

Renee sucks in a sharp breath, but he knows she isn’t shocked, really. She is all too familiar with violence. Concern, maybe. Not pity. “Why?”

Andrew shoots her a cool look. “Does it matter?”

She doesn’t say she’s sorry, because that wouldn’t help Nathaniel, and it sure as hell wouldn’t help Andrew.

“What are you doing?” She asks instead, and Andrew feels a wry smile pulling at the corner of his lip.

“I’m working on his mother, her dreams. She’s-” he breaks off, grits his teeth. “Whatever spine she has is misplaced, fighting to take Nathaniel to Exy practices instead of away from him.”

Renee hums thoughtfully. “Does Nathaniel like Exy?”

Andrew scoffs. “Of course he does. The idiot gets to run around and get hit, the things he loves most.” Renee shoots him a look, but Andrew doesn’t take back his words. 

“Maybe he sees it as an escape.”

Mouth twisting, Andrew pushes away from the porch railing. Escape for a handful of hours a week isn’t much of an escape, and they both know it. He glances at his wrist, a symbolic gesture, as his armbands fail to tell him the time. “Nathaniel’s waking up soon.” 

Nathaniel will wake up and stare right through Andrew, but Andrew will be there anyway.

“I’ll see you later,” Renee says, as sweet as ever. Andrew just shoots her one last look before disappearing.

\-----

 

Andrew hates Exy. His idiot, of course, loves it. Nathaniel loves his racket, loves his jersey with “Weninski” squeezed across the back, loves the cramped gym he practices in, and loves the middle-aged coach who struggles to steer his boundless enthusiasm into playing as a semi-decent backliner.

Andrew hates Exy, but he watches, hovering up in a corner of the court and scowling whenever a ball passes through him. The team Nathaniel plays for is terrible, even for a bunch of ten year olds. The strikers are alright, Andrew supposes, but Nathaniel has to hold up the defense line practically single-handedly.

“Your goalie is shit,” Andrew tells Nathaniel’s coach during practice one day. “Even for a ten year old.” Said goalie misses a shot on the goal by over a foot, and Andrew hisses out a breath in disgust. “I could have done better even when I was younger than him.” Andrew’s never played Exy, as far as he knows. The details of his human life are fuzzy, but he’s fairly confident he wouldn’t have been such a terrible goalie. The point stands.

The coach, of course, ignores him, clapping his hands and yelling encouragements at his team. Andrew turns his attention on Nathaniel, who jogs back to his starting position, slowed only slightly by his bruised ribs. “Don’t be stupid,” Andrew says, floating down next to him. “You’re just going to injure yourself more, idiot.”

Nathaniel turns at his words, stares straight at him, and Andrew’s heart, though he’d never admit it, jumps. But Nathaniel’s eyes are focused beyond him, and Andrew turns to see what he’s looking at. It’s Mary, slapping at the plexiglass wall and gesturing to Nathaniel impatiently.

The coach calls a halt to game play and Nathaniel makes his way to his mother, Andrew right on his heels. “Mom?” Nathaniel pulls off his helmet and frowns at her. “What’s going on?”

Mary’s smile stretches across her face, thin and fake, and Andrew’s fingers itch for a knife. Something’s wrong. “We’re going on a trip, sweetie.” Her voice is thick with false cheer. Nathaniel, more wary than any ten year old should have to be, squints at her suspiciously. 

“Where are we going?”

“Castle Evermore, in West Virginia.”

Just like that, Nathaniel’s suspicion disappears, replaced with excitement. “Castle Evermore? The first Exy stadium in the US? With Tetsuji Moriyama and the Ravens?” Andrew resists the urge to roll his eyes at the excited babble of words.

Mary’s smile flickers. “That’s the one! We need to go home and pack; we’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Okay!” Nathaniel dashes for the locker room, and Mary meets with the little league coach to excuse her son. Andrew watches her, frown growing. Something, he knows with instincts he’s not sure came from his role as a guardian or his life before, is deeply wrong.

\------

Castle Evermore - and what a ridiculous name - is a hulking beast of a stadium, jet black and imposing. Even Nathaniel hesitates at the entrance, his excitement faltering. Mary drags him in, her knuckles white around Nathaniel’s upper arm. Andrew, as always, follows.

Nathan meets them in an office, his grin cold. With him is an older man that Andrew recognizes from Nathaniel’s Exy magazines as Tetsuji Moriyama and two men sporting sunglasses and poorly-disguised guns. Security, Andrew assumes, though why they’re needed in a room that also contains the Butcher of Baltimore is beyond him.

He glances at Nathaniel to find that his attention is divided between his sorry excuse for a father and two young boys that Andrew hadn’t noticed at first, unobtrusive among the general aura of malice in the room. Andrew flicks his gaze over them, noting the sharpie scrawl of numbers across their cheekbones, then returns to ignoring them in favor of the greater threat.

Mary drags Nathaniel to a halt in front of Nathan. Her knuckles are clenched white around Nathaniel’s upper arm, a clear sign of nerves. Andrew supposes it’s understandable, but she’s clearly hurting Nathaniel, and that is unacceptable.

“Mary,” Nathan says. “Junior.” 

Nathaniel’s gaze drops to somewhere in the vicinity of Nathan’s shoes. “Sir.”

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” That’s Tetsuji, speaking in slightly accented English from behind his desk. When Nathaniel nods, his gaze flickering towards the man in evident curiosity, Tetsuji beckons the two boys from where they’d been loitering against the far wall. “This is my nephew, Riko, and my charge, Kevin Day.”

Kevin smiles at Nathaniel, who smiles tentatively back. Riko just stares at Nathaniel, cool and assessing. 

Tetsuji continues, “Your father tells me you have become quite proficient at Exy. This weekend you will have the opportunity to play with and against Riko and Kevin. It’s an opportunity for you to improve your skill and for me and your father to evaluate your potential and value.”

His voice is as cold and dead as his eyes. Apprehension roils in Andrew’s stomach at this new, undefined threat. Nathaniel seems to be oblivious to the implications, his expression lighting up with excitement. He looks toward Nathan for affirmation or permission or just as an ingrained response.

Nathan reaches out to pat Nathaniel just a little too roughly on the shoulder. “I expect that you’ll make me proud, Junior.”

Nathaniel’s smile flickers then returns in full force. “I’ll try, sir.”

Tetsuji nods sharply. “Very well. The first practice will begin in an hour.” It’s a clear dismissal.

They all file into the hallway, and minor commotion breaks out as Nathan pulls Mary aside for a short, heated argument and Kevin eagerly greets Nathaniel. Andrew watches it all, uncertainty sitting sour on the back of his tongue.

“This,” Andrew mutters to himself, a habit he can’t quite break, “is not going to end well.”

At his words, impossibly, horribly, Riko’s eyes snap to meet Andrew’s. 

Andrew stares back, struck mute with surprise. Riko smirks, not breaking eye contact, and Andrew feels his blood run cold.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr!](http://nwesninski.tumblr.com)
> 
> Comments fuel and encourage me!
> 
> Update schedule: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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